


untitled

by kerrykins



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/F, fiction&femslashevent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-29 00:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerrykins/pseuds/kerrykins
Summary: an eating disorder is sort of explored so proceed w/ caution i guess. i'm kind of out of the loop when it comes to writing mirandy so please let me know your thoughts





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> an eating disorder is sort of explored so proceed w/ caution i guess. i'm kind of out of the loop when it comes to writing mirandy so please let me know your thoughts

Everyone had their fair share of demons, Andy knew. Everyone probably had the same kind of intrusive thoughts as she did, insistent and desperate.

It all started when she was in high school. For the most part, Andy hadn’t really given a shit about what people thought of her and her body; she was the top of her class and didn’t need to impress anyone other than herself. She knew she wasn’t fat, despite what all the boys in her grade kept telling her. It was easy to tell herself that she didn’t care what other people thought of her – but it was an entirely different thing to actually believe it.

Inadequacy, no matter the source, felt unbelievably disappointing— a deep, empty echo in her chest. So Andy began exercising more, reading nutrition labels, skipping meals. Ten less pounds wouldn’t kill her. There were girls in magazines and on TV that weighed thirty pounds less than she did, with perfect teeth and bronzed skin. If they could do it, why couldn’t she?

Andy was very firm on maintaining a routine. Fruit for breakfast, salads for lunch, soup for dinner. Go out for a twenty minute run every day after school. No snacks unless they were fruits or vegetables. After a month Andy eagerly weighed herself again, horrified to learn she was no better off than when she had started.

Then the meals from before changed – one could hardly call them meals anymore. An apple and water for breakfast, no lunch, and dinner was cooked by her parents. She did more stretches in the morning and weighed herself up to five times a day and scrutinised her body for long periods of time despite hating it very, very much.

Her hair began falling out in clumps. Andy could barely stay awake in class. Her grades began to dip. Her entire body ached. She snapped at her friends, family, even the boy she had a crush on. He stopped talking to her in physics class.

This was what dying feels like, she realised. I’m dying. I need to get some help. Andy kept telling herself this but as soon as she looked at herself in the mirror, the protests faded into nothing. Her thighs were flabby, her stomach dipped weirdly in the middle, one hip curved more than the other. It was gross. She was gross. She needed to keep going.

Andy lived in numbers and calories now and very little mattered to her anymore. These days she didn’t recognise herself in the mirror, this sickly, gaunt creature that seemed more dead than alive. She’d become dependent on this, needed it more than oxygen or sleep or sunlight. Andy would die without it. Andy would be nothing without it. She didn’t want to be but that was simply the way things were.

After barely passing her classes that semester, her mother asked Andy if she had a moment to sit down and talk. At first, Andy was resistant. She had so much to do, like go for a run. Her mother spoke quickly and quietly, with only a slight tremble in her voice.

“I don’t have an eating disorder,” Andy said indignantly. She was too smart for that. Only shallow, narcissistic girls got those. Andy had gotten the best SAT scores out of her peers and was going to be one of the greatest journalists of all time. Sure, she had a problem, but it wasn’t anything remotely resembling an eating disorder. No, she did not need nor want to see a nutritionist.

The doctor diagnosed her with anorexia nervosa anyways. Andy was given pills, therapy, a nutritionist. Her memories of that year were foggy, dimmed by fatigue and irritation.

By the time she graduated from high school, she had finally reached a healthy weight and went off with her new boyfriend Nate to college, determined to leave everything behind her.

Four years later, Andy walked across the lobby of the Elias-Clarke building, briefcase in hand. Pretty, perfect girls like the ones she’d wished she could be, clicked down steps and slid out of taxis. When Andy squeezed herself into the elevator, she realised she was surrounded by half a dozen glamazons. Great. She squirmed, their perfume reeking of wealth and innate superiority.

She pushed herself free when the elevator dinged, pushing past the doors of Runway. The interior was all white and glass, with an air of effortless elegance much like that of all the women that worked there.

Andy found herself standing before Miranda Priestly, who sized her up from the tops of reading glasses. Her head still swam unpleasantly from the earlier flurry of red hair and gaudy eyeshadow known as Emily.

All things considered, it was a poor interview. The older woman was so disinterested that she began flipping through a newspaper as Andy spoke, completely disregarding her pretty illustrious resume. It was insulting and by the end of it, Andy was pissed.

“Okay, you’re right,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I don’t fit in here. I’m not glamorous or skinny and I don’t know much about fashion. But I’m smart, I learn fast and I will work very hard – ”

She was cut off by a bald man rushing into Miranda’s office, upset about something to do with Golden Nugget. Miranda folded the newspaper and pushed her reading glasses up her nose, clearly fascinated by whatever it was she saw.

“Thank you for your... time.” Andy decided to take this failure in stride and not be too upset about it. Besides, it wasn’t as if fashion was her dream career anyways. By the time she handed back her guest pass and was heading out the door, Andy had more or less become resigned. That changed when Emily pushed past the turnstile, calling her name with an exasperated expression.

Working for Miranda was hard, harder than college, but not as hard as recovering from her eating disorder back in high school. Andy knew she had what it took to do this job and goddamnit, she was going to succeed. Miranda apparently was intent on making her work for her success, piling demand after demand like there was no tomorrow.

It reached its peak when Andy had failed to get Miranda out of the Hamptons during a hurricane. Smart fat girl, the older woman had called her. A swarm of old insecurities came tumbling out, as well as quite a few tears.

When she went to Nigel, she cried but didn’t tell him why Miranda’s remark had cut so deep. He finally agreed to help her, taking her to the Closet and shoving various garment bags into her arms, rattling off a list of designers that Andy didn’t know.

When Andy looked at herself, new haircut and new boots, she couldn’t hide a grin.

___

Andy dropped down from a size six to four. This time she was careful, trying to tell herself that her body was fine the way it was, that becoming a skeleton wasn’t desirable. Even though Nate had left, she was still someone worthy of love.

Ever since her unofficial makeover, Miranda’s eyes would linger a little on her form in what Andy thought was approval. It would always make Andy glow with joy, more than whenever Nate had complimented her.

Then Paris happened, a myriad of revelations; Miranda was completely miserable; Christian and Irv were conniving assholes; Nigel was devastated. On the behalf of Nigel, her good friend, Andy was compelled to hate Miranda. Yet whenever the thought surfaced she’d feel guilty.

Miranda’s family life and marriage were in tatters, her tenure at Runway indefinite. Everything this woman had she’d fought tooth and nail for, and wouldn’t let go without resistance. Andy could get behind that.

There was a shift in their working relationship post-Paris, nothing big but still a change worth noting. Something like mutual understanding and respect passed between them, putting them both on more equal footing. They weren’t just a boss and an assistant anymore, no, they were much more than that; they were connected.

As much as Miranda’s “I see a great deal of myself in you” diatribe had spooked Andy, she had to accept that it held some truth – they were a lot more similar than what met the eye. What the two of them had wasn’t quite a friendship because they didn’t go for drinks after work, they never talked about their personal lives, they didn’t hang out. They didn’t need to.

They worked side by side in comfortable silence, their infrequent discussions flowing between them as easily as water, able to discern just by a glance what the other was thinking.

Things between them changed every day, bit by bit. There was a kind of loosening inside Andy, one that allowed her to ask questions freely and allowed Miranda to answer them. Sometimes they’d eat meals together in Miranda’s office or have a nightcap on late nights. They talked more but were still quiet for the most part. Simply being around Miranda had a therapeutic effect on Andy, the soft intakes of breath and other small signs of life enough for the both of them.

Miranda had always been a fan of intense eye contact, but sitting right next to her was a lot different than being stared down five feet away. Andy could smell her perfume, see the lines in her face, make out the flecks of blue and green in her eyes. All the visible imperfections made Andy’s heart ache, in a way it had never done before. She liked Miranda’s habit of tracing a finger along something, be it reading glasses or her lip or a mug.

“I had an eating disorder in high school,” said Andy on the topic of body positivity. “It started with magazines and movies, that’s why I think its so important for young girls to know bodies of all sizes are okay.”

Miranda’s brows knit together, sitting up in her seat. “And how are you now?” The low lighting of one lamp softened the features of her face as she sat with one leg across her lap. She looked so peaceful in moments like these— heels off, guard down.

“It’s gone, if that’s what you mean. But I uh, I think about it a lot.”

“That must have been difficult,” Miranda said, but Andy knew what she really meant was, ‘I’m sorry.’

“I just know there are other little girls out there. Ones that are worse off than I was.” Andy looked out the large window behind Miranda, at dots of light in the streets and stars. “I wish I could tell them that it isn’t worth it, that there’s so much more to life than being skinny and pretty and boys liking you.”

Miranda was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “I shouldn’t have called you fat,” she said, her voice oddly subdued.

“But you did,” Andy pointed out. She had long ago forgiven Miranda for it, because a large part of her job was learning to forgive and forget all the terrible things she had born witness to.

Miranda shot her a glare, though Andy doubted that she was actually angry. “And I’ll apologise for it, if you’ll let me. That particular remark of mine wasn’t well-thought out, it was stupid. I’m sorry.” The older woman pursed her lips. “I could have come up with something more original.”

Andy rolled her eyes at that but was grateful nonetheless. “Thanks.” That earned her the subtlest of smiles from Miranda.

Soon they were very, very drunk. They had already been drinking wine but Miranda had made the decision to open a bottle of brandy. The intelligent conversations degenerated into bouts of laughter and a great deal of arm touching.

Andy raised her glass in a toast, her head buzzing with delirious excitement. Surprisingly Miranda mirrored the action with her wine, the gesture still graceful despite her intoxication.

“To innovative insults and body positivity.” Andy couldn’t fight a smile from breaking across her face when their glasses clinked.

“To you, Andrea,” Miranda added drily, lip still quirked. The older woman was looking at Andy in a way she never had before, as if seeing her for the first time. In the dark her eyes were deep blue, and glimmered with a raw, aching kind of tenderness. It was the most beautiful thing Andy had ever seen in her entire life. Everything about Miranda was suddenly too much, from the delicate silver forelock to the fruity wine on her breath. Alcohol was supposed to numb one’s senses, not enhance them.

Andy’s breath caught in her throat and her stomach fluttered quietly. “To us.”

“To our future.”

They drank, Andy feeling the intensity Miranda’s unwavering gaze.


End file.
